


Insanity And Impossibilites

by Hekate1308



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Post-Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-26
Updated: 2013-12-26
Packaged: 2018-01-06 06:13:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1103367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hekate1308/pseuds/Hekate1308
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Henry Knight hadn't doubted his sanity for a moment since Sherlock Holmes had proved that his father had been right. Finding a man he'd thought dead for two years on his doorstep, however, was almost enough to make him believe himself mad again. Post-Reichenbach</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Henry Knight hadn't doubted his sanity for one moment, ever since Sherlock Holmes and John Watson proved that he had been drugged.

He had spent the day on the moor, enjoying the early days of spring, and had only returned after sunset; now that everything had been cleared up, the moor was no longer a place he was scared of, instead, it was a place to cherish the memories he had of his father –

And of Sherlock Holmes, now that he was gone. The consulting detective had been, for lack of a better word, strange – how could he forget Sherlock thanking him for the case while he was having all but a nervous breakdown right next to him? – but Henry had grown fond of him. And he had saved his sanity, as well as his life.

He still couldn't understand how anyone could believe that Sherlock had been a fraud – no one who had seen him, or even read his homepage or John's blog (Henry had stayed an avid reader, of course he had) could be of that opinion. Maybe it had been what people wanted to believe, Louise had said.

He smiled a little at the thought of his former therapist, now a close personal friend, who was now on a conference but had promised to visit him for a few days right afterwards. Of course, it didn't mean anything; after all, Louise would never – she had been his therapist, after all, and was still the one he went to when he needed advice. Like when he'd heard about Sherlock's death. He'd just wanted to watch the news. By the time he'd processed the headline of the day, that Sherlock was no more, that he'd committed suicide (and he still thought it was a weird way for him to go – being shot, sure, but taking his own life? He would never have thought Sherlock would do something like that), the news programme had been over and he hadn't heard a word of anything else that was going on in the world, but he didn't care. He'd called Louise immediately.

She'd been shocked too, but told him that it was important to grieve, whether he had been a close friend of Sherlock's or not. That it was important to allow himself to grieve. So he had.

He'd driven to London, for the funeral, Louise accompanying him because she'd decided she had "a lot to thank Sherlock Holmes for, too", and he'd ignored the implications of this, because there was no way she'd even consider going out with someone who'd once been her patient.

John had looked awful, and in fact, he still looked awful, if nothing had changed in the last three weeks, which Henry doubted. He travelled to London once a month to check on the doctor, not because he felt he owed him, but simply because he wanted to. And because he'd grown rather fond of John during their adventure too.

And –

And maybe also because he had the feeling that Sherlock would have appreciated someone checking up on John. He had told the consulting detective that mates were mates, and he firmly believed that Sherlock had cared for his flatmate. He'd told John as much, three weeks ago, when they and DI Lestrade, or "Greg" as he was supposed to call him now had gone for a pint. At least that had got a smile out of him, even though Henry (as was Louise) was sure that all that could help was time.

Although it had already been two years –

But, then again, he and Louise were just friends (and that was all they would ever be, he reminded himself), and even the thought of losing her was unbearable. So he knew there was nothing he could do to make John feel better.

Still, he would visit the doctor every month, he would write him e-mails. Because he and Sherlock Holmes were the reason he hadn't doubted his sanity for over two years now.

However, seeing a man he'd thought dead for the last two years lying injured on his doorstep was enough to make him worry again.

He had just decided that he should probably go to bed, after all, it was almost two am, when someone rang the bell.

Taking out his gun (after all, he lived alone, and it was in the middle of the night, and someone had once tried to kill him) he slowly went to the door and looked through the peephole.

Nobody was there.

He could have just gone to bed, but the probability of someone playing a prank on him, at this time of night, was extremely low. He would check, just to make sure. He opened the door.

He didn't know what he'd been expecting, but it certainly hadn't been finding Sherlock Holmes lying unconscious on his doorstep certainly.

He stared for a moment, but then, before he'd really processed what he was doing, he was dragging Sherlock into the house. The consulting detective was definitely real, at least, and not a delusion; his dead weight was enough to prove that. He laid him down on the sofa and took his pulse, trying to figure out what was wrong –

It was then that he realized that the consulting detective was bleeding. There was a deep gash on his forehead – he probably needed stitches. He was too thin too, thinner than when he'd come down to solve the mystery of the H.O.U.N.D., and Henry hadn't thought that possible.

He should have called an ambulance. Definitely. He didn't, though.

Because a man who pretended to be dead – even to his closest friends, he was sure of it, their grief at the funeral and their meetings had been genuine – had to have a good reason for it.

At least he hoped so. He didn't want them to have suffered for nothing.

In the next moment, he dismissed the thought – Sherlock, the Sherlock who had run to prevent him from committing suicide, the Sherlock who had tried to calm him down when the hound had appeared, wouldn't do that to his friends.

And, judging from his pale complexion, torn clothes and the wound on his forehead, the consulting detective had suffered too.

So he didn't call an ambulance or the police and instead went to the bathroom to get some antiseptic and bandages.

When he came back, Sherlock was stirring, apparently frantically trying to make sense of his surroundings, and instinctively, Henry attempted to call him down.

"Sherlock? Sherlock, it's me". The consulting detective relaxed when he realized whose voice it was, and, although he probably shouldn't be talking, answered, "Hello, Henry".

Henry wanted to start asking Sherlock questions – but what he needed right now was someone to clean his wound as well as food and rest, so he said nothing. Instead, he cleaned the wound, while the man he'd never really seen sit still – even when he'd sat down in his kitchen to drink coffee, so long ago, he'd constantly been moving, turning around looking at him, at John – was lying without moving a muscle, eyes closed, on his sofa. After Henry had put on a bandage, as best as he could, he checked his temperature, only to hear a mumbled, "I can assure you that this is my only wound right now, and that it's not infected".

Sherlock opened his eyes, and Henry noticed how empty they looked. He swallowed.

Because he didn't know what else to say, he finally asked, "Sherlock, what happened? I thought you were –"

Sherlock waved a hand. "I know. You should. As well as everyone else." His voice sounded hollow when he pronounced "everyone else", and Henry knew who he was thinking of.

"Not even – " and a Sherlock two years ago would probably have needed him to finish the sentence, because he hadn't been good with emotions, even Henry had realized that, but now the consulting detective knew immediately to who he was alluding.

"No".

Henry nodded. They were silent for a moment, then he asked, "Do you want something to eat?"

Sherlock actually shot him a thankful glance, and that made him more concerned than the fact that a dead man had just appeared on his doorstep.

"Yes, please".

He quickly warmed up some leftovers, not because he didn't want to cook, but because Sherlock looked as if he hadn't eaten in several days, and judging by the way the consulting detective shoved the food into his mouth, he decided he'd been right.

Once Sherlock had eaten, he brought him a coffee (black, two sugars) and sat down next to him on the sofa.

"I assume you have questions" Sherlock drawled, and Henry smiled a little, because that sounded more like the man who'd cleared his father's name.

"Yes, I do" he replied. He decided that "Why aren't you dead?" didn't sound right, so he settled on "Why are you here?"

Sherlock sighed, as if it was obvious, and it probably was, to him at least.

"One of Moran's men attacked me tonight – he only managed to graze my forehead, but I was rather weak – I needed a safe place to spend the night".

Henry was silent, not because he was shocked – it was obvious that Sherlock was in some kind of trouble – but because he felt strangely proud when he heard Sherlock refer to his house as a "safe place".

But he still wanted more information.

"So, this Moran – "

"Moriarty's bosom friend. And the less you know about him, the better". Moriarty, the man Henry had read about, in John's blog and the articles. It didn't explain much, but if Sherlock was chasing his men – or if they were chasing him – it certainly gave the consulting detective a good reason to fake his death.

Suddenly, Sherlock grimaced, and for a moment, Henry thought he might be in pain, but then the consulting detective started talking again. "I should probably point out that Moriarty was real – "

"Of course he was" Henry replied, confused – did he really think he'd entertained the possibility that Kitty Riley's story was true even for a moment? – and Sherlock scrutinized his face, apparently finding no scepticism, and looked on the floor, biting his lip, before nodding.

Realizing that Sherlock didn't want to talk, and that he needed his rest – looking at his watch, he realized that it was almost four am – Henry stood up and beckoned Sherlock to do the same. "Come on, I'll show you the guest bedroom".

Sherlock followed him, swaying slightly from side to side, most likely from the lack of sleep. He still raised an eyebrow when he saw the guest bed made, however.

"Waiting for someone?"

Henry cleared his throat. "Lou – Dr. Mortimer is going to come down in a few days. For a week or so".

Sherlock smirked, but said nothing – another sign of how exhausted he must be – and said, "Don't worry, I'll be gone in the morning. There's an alarm clock on the bedside table – I'll make sure to be up before sunrise. It's safer to be on the move when it's dark".

Henry nodded, wished him a good night and left.

He did sneak back into the room, however, half an hour later, and made sure the alarm clock wouldn't wake Sherlock. The consulting detective needed sleep, and if he had to spend another day here, so be it.

Sherlock blamed himself when he came into the kitchen at one pm the next day, mumbling something about "Too tired to make sure an alarm rings" and Henry simply gave him coffee and made sure that he ate lunch as well as dinner.

Sherlock asked in the evening, "Don't you want an explanation?" but Henry shook his head. "I trust you, Sherlock".

And he did. He would have liked an explanation, it was true, but Sherlock's haunted eyes told him that this was a story for another day. When everything, whatever "everything" entailed, was over.

Sherlock left at ten pm, despite his best efforts to make him stay until sunrise. "It's safer for you if I don't stay too long", and Henry was touched that the consulting detective seemed to care for his safety.

"And, please, don't tell anyone I'm alive. I didn't tell them to keep them safe. No one is to know – not even Doctor Mortimer – not even if you should grow closer, which seems likely, based on the fact that you keep the spare bed ready for her days before she comes down".

"I won't" Henry promised (maybe blushing a little, though he'd never admit it to himself), because there was nothing else he could do.

Before Sherlock opened the door, he turned around.

"Thank you, Henry, for – everything. The food, the bed. John".

Of course Sherlock would know that he'd been in touch with John. Henry smiled.

"My pleasure".

Sherlock nodded, then he was gone.

Henry stayed up the whole night, wondering where Sherlock was going, and hoping that he'd soon finish whatever he was doing so he could return to his friends.

Because, despite the fact that he didn't know Sherlock that well, and that he'd seen him wounded, vulnerable and miserable, Henry had no doubt that he would return one day.

Because a dead man who managed to turn up on a doorstep in Dartmoor was capable of everything.


	2. Chapter 2

He had expected to simply continue living his life, pretending to mourn for Sherlock, which, admittedly, wouldn't be easy. He had expected that he'd have to lie, to be nervous when he met the consulting detective's friends, knowing that he could swipe away the grief in John's eyes at any moment, but deciding against it every time because he had promised Sherlock he wouldn't tell anyone that he was alive.

He had expected to spend a lot of time worrying about Sherlock, too. After all, his – for lack of a better word, knowing the consulting detective, he'd probably snort at "saviour" – friend was out there, all alone, doing God knew what. Henry was just sure that whatever he was doing was dangerous, very dangerous indeed, if he couldn't take John with him. He hadn't expected, in short, to hear from the consulting detective again – until he returned, at least.

He'd been wrong.

Not about the lying, or the worrying, but about not hearing from Sherlock again.

Because, somehow, three weeks after he'd spent a day in his house, Sherlock started texting him. Not regularly, and, of course, he didn't really tell him anything – but, nonetheless, he let him know that he was still alive, and at least fine enough to text.

Louise (who had spent a few days in his house, after the conference, of course in the guest bedroom) would probably have told him that it was Sherlock's way of staying connected with his old life, that it wasn't important that he was texting Henry, but that he was texting someone. He didn't like the idea of mattering nothing (true as it might be), so he didn't think much about it.

The numbers changed, naturally, and he never signed his texts, but Henry knew it was him. Who else would send such messages?

_Rio is beautiful. Have to wait three days. Bored._

_Can't believe Scotland Yard overlooked another murder. That's three in a year._

_Find myself missing London. Sentiment. It's annoying._

Henry always answered. He knew that Sherlock didn't expect (or at least wished he didn't expect) a reply, and that, if asked, he'd probably exclaim something like "Why would I need an answer? There is no reason why I should like to hear from a former client. I only text him so he won't be worried, and therefore won't reveal that I am alive through this sentiment."

But Henry knew he wanted to know how John was doing, how Greg was doing, and maybe (although there was no reason, he told himself, that he should be so important) how he was doing. After all, it wouldn't surprise him if Sherlock had deduced that he occasionally spent time with his friends.

So he answered. He didn't write much – he suspected Sherlock didn't have much time to read the texts. But he hoped it was enough.

 _Saw John and Greg today. They're fine._  
Or as close to fine as they could be, under the circumstances. He'd travelled to London, on his monthly visit, about one and a half weeks after finding out Sherlock was alive, and he had to admit that it had been more difficult than he thought. Of course he'd known that lying to people he'd come to trust, people he had every reason to thank for proving that he wasn't mad, wouldn't be easy.  
Yet –  
John's eyes were empty. He remembered a time when they had been full of life. He remembered a time when the doctor had been happy, truly happy, just because of one man, who was now gone, and realized he could help him, but wasn't allowed to, because of the promise he'd made the man who'd saved him.  
Greg was dealing better with Sherlock's death, though Henry could tell that he hadn't forgotten his friend either; there were moments when, talking about his job, it was obvious that he caught himself just in time, before he could say something like "This would be a case for Sherlock" or "Sherlock would like this". He stopped himself in the middle of a sentence, took a gulp of his pint and shot John a look. It was obvious, though, and if even Henry could tell what was going on, he dreaded to think what these allusions-and-yet-not-allusions to a dead-yet-very-much-alive-man did to John, who never reacted.  
The doctor Henry remembered would have reacted, he was sure of it.  
And yet, despite all of this, he wrote Sherlock that they were fine, because he knew (or suspected) that was what Sherlock needed to hear. That the consulting detective needed to be able to make himself believe that he had done the right thing.  
Most people wouldn't have believed Sherlock capable of caring. Henry, having seen his tired eyes, knew better.  
And so he continued texting.

 _Met your landlady on the cemetery. She's nice._  
Every time he'd travelled to London, before Sherlock had rang his bell in the middle of the night, he'd made a point of visiting the consulting detective's grave, of paying his respect; now that was no longer necessary, of course it wasn't, but he thought that he should at least act like he was still grieving, after all, he wouldn't even know that Sherlock had survived if this gangster hadn't wounded him.  
Mrs. Hudson had suddenly been standing behind him, and when he'd turned around, feeling her presence, he'd almost taken an involuntary step back; her glare was enough to make any man run. Naturally, she'd apologized, after they'd started to talk (or, rather, she had demanded who he was, and apparently recognized his name from the blog). He could understand her; there must have been a lot of reporters or simply curious citizens, standing around Sherlock's grave, shortly after he'd faked his death. She must have felt alone in her grief – especially after John had moved out.  
So he'd accepted her invitation and told her all about "The Hounds of Baskerville", while drinking a lot of tea and eating a lot of biscuits, and left much happier than he'd come, seeing how pleased she'd been to hear about her boy.

And so time went on. Occasionally he got texts, he replied, but all in all, his life stayed the same as before that fateful night, notwithstanding the lying.

Then, about six months after Sherlock had reappeared and disappeared again, he once again visited the capital, this time staying for a week – Louise would soon join him (well, not join, of course, but she'd come down to and live in the same hotel, and they'd spend some time together, strictly as friends). He'd just arrived in his hotel room when his phone rang.

It was Louise, and he tried to ignore his suddenly loudly beating heart.

She sounded concerned.

"Henry, is everything alright?"

"Of course" he answered, confused. "Why wouldn't it be?"

"Doctor Watson just called – he told me you were acting "jumpy" and seemed nervous."

He swallowed. To be honest, he had expected something like this to happen; he knew he wasn't good at acting like nothing had changed when, in reality, everything had, and he might have grown more "confident" (or, at least, that was what Louise thought) since Sherlock had cleared his father's name, but he was incapable of mourning convincingly for a man he knew to be alive, and it was awful to see Sherlock's friends grieve, too awful to act in front of them. But because a promise was a promise, he tried, and all this deception made him nervous and jumpy indeed.

He cleared his throat, praying that he would be able to convince her, somehow (even though she knew him, and she was a psychiatrist – it really was rather hopeless, but he had to try) and replied, "It's just, you know, seeing John – he's so sad. Lost his best mate over two years ago and still grieves".

There was a silence on the other end, and then he heard Louise sigh. Was it a sigh of disbelief? Pity for John? Relief? He couldn't say.

"Those things take time. He and Sherlock were close – think of the blog. He'll be fine, Henry, I'm sure of it". Another pause. Then, she added, "Are you sure that is all?"

"Of course, Louise. You know I would tell you if something was wrong".

It wasn't technically a lie; Sherlock being alive was far from wrong, Sherlock being alive was right. So very right. But he couldn't tell her, or anyone, and his heart sank when he thought about her finding out the truth, when Sherlock returned. Would she be angry? Would she never want to see him again? The thought was unbearable.

"Good, then, Henry" she finally said, sounding slightly offended (it was better than angry, he supposed). "You know you can always call me, should you want to talk. See you in two days".

"Yes, see you" he answered, and she hung up.

He sat down on his bed and sighed. As if his life, after finding out that his father's best friend had killed him, and tried to have Henry declared insane, couldn't become normal for once. Then, again, he supposed nothing could ever be normal, not with Sherlock Holmes around, so he preferred not normal.

Speaking of which...

His phone rang; he had a text. There was only one person who texted him, really, he preferred phone calls.

The text, however, surprised him.

_Please get in the car, Mr. Knight.  
Mycroft Holmes_

Confused, he stood up and walked over to the window, only to see a black limousine standing in front of the hotel.


	3. Chapter 3

A few minutes later, Henry still stared at the car, trying to understand what had happened, and why, when he got another text.

_I would appreciate it if you would come down soon. I assure you that any resistance would be futile.  
Mycroft Holmes_

Henry didn't doubt it, considering the man, whoever he was, had his phone number and knew in which hotel he was staying. And could apparently order a limousine to kidnap him. Although Henry had no idea what he could want. Maybe he wanted a ransom? He was, after all, rich, as he had told John Watson years ago...

He realized something and read the text again. Holmes. The man's name was Holmes. Sherlock had never said anything about his family, of course he hadn't, why would he, but he vaguely remembered a rather posh looking guy at the funeral being referred to as "Sherlock's brother" by Greg, so it would most likely be him.

Strangely, this thought made him even more nervous.

Because there could only really be one reason Sherlock's brother wanted to talk to him.

If he simply wanted to talk about Sherlock – he could have done this long ago, even at the funeral. But he hadn't. So there must be another reason...

Like Sherlock being alive.

But he had promised...

Henry shook his head, sighed and made his way down, through the lobby and into the car, where a young woman awaited him. He would probably have thought her pretty, if he didn't have this hopeless little crush –

He tried concentrating on the situation at hand. He didn't know London very well, so he had no idea where they were going, and he suspected that asking the young woman would be useless. He tried anyway.

"Hello, I'm Henry."

"I know" she answered without looking up from her blackberry.

Silence.

He cleared his throat. "May I ask... where are we going?"

"You may, but I am not going to answer".

He nodded and continued looking out of the window.

Finally they arrived at an abandoned warehouse, where the posh guy he remembered seeing at Sherlock's funeral was indeed waiting for him – curiously, even though it hadn't rained though, neither was there any reason to expect it, he was holding an umbrella in his right hand.

A chair was standing in front of him.

"Mr. Knight. Sit down".

Henry did as he was told, figuring it would be better to obey this man's command.

"I'm Mycroft Holmes".

Henry nodded, then, because he didn't know what else to say, asked, "Sherlock's brother?"

The man raised an eyebrow, and Henry shifted under his gaze, which was so similar to Sherlock's, and yet different, in a way. Because he had never been afraid of, or felt threatened by, Sherlock, no matter how strange the consulting detective had acted. His brother, though... Something about him just told Henry that he should stay on his good side.

"Greg mentioned you" he added, by way of explanation.

The man nodded, and Henry felt strangely relieved. But only for a moment, because then, his eyes were boring into Henry's again, and Mycroft asked the question he'd dreaded.

"Mr. Knight, what do you know about my brother?"

Henry bit his lip, his hands clenching into fists against his will. He needed a cigarette, but he figured the man wouldn't appreciate him casually rolling one in front of him.  
What should he answer? He had promised Sherlock not to reveal that he was alive, and a promise was a promise... He hated lying, however, and this was Sherlock's brother. Who would probably be able to tell he was lying as soon as he opened his mouth.

Still, he had to try. Maybe he could begin with a half-truth...

He took a deep breath and tried to make it seem that his hesitation came from confusion – not unlikely under the circumstances, after all – instead of a guilty conscience.

"Sherlock... ahem... He worked as a consulting detective. He saved my life. And my sanity, really. He – he – his funeral was over two years ago".

There; that was about as honest as Henry could hope to be. After all, Sherlock's funeral had taken place; he hadn't been in the casket, but still...

"Then how do you explain" Mycroft replied, "that someone has been sending you texts from various burn phones, someone who can only be Sherlock?"

Henry decided to play dumb. Comparing to the Holmes, everyone was anyway.

"Really?"

Mycroft sighed, and suddenly looked tired and care-worn.

"Mr. Knight, please..." He raised his head, and Henry was shocked to see the grief and raw caring in them.

"If Sherlock is out there, somewhere, I have to find him. He could be anywhere, he could be in danger... If he is alive, that is".

And everything, the tone of his voice, the way his shoulders sagged, told Henry that he just couldn't lie anymore. John was suffering, and suffering greatly, but he had his friends, and he allowed himself to mourn for Sherlock. Henry had the feeling that this man had no one, no one he could call, no one he could talk to, no one he could meet only to have company, and that he hadn't even allowed himself to cry, even though he had lost his brother.

Maybe he was being manipulated, but he didn't care. He was sure this man cared about his brother, and that he would indeed try to help Sherlock. Which was probably a good idea, Henry decided, remembering Sherlock turning up at his house in the middle of the night.

So he took a deep breath and said it.

"Sherlock's alive".

The man looked even paler than before, and Henry, without knowing why, suddenly thought that he was the first person to see Mycroft Holmes shocked. Since Sherlock's brother didn't seem to be able to say anything – for now, anyway – he continued talking.

"A few months ago, he came to my house in the middle of the night. Said he needed a safe place to stay, and stayed a day. Since then, he's been texting me. Not often, and the numbers change. But he's alive, and that's all that matters".

He didn't even know why that last sentence had escaped him, but hearing himself say it, he realized it was true. That was why he, albeit nervous and uncomfortable, had been able to keep up the charade of mourning for Sherlock. Because just knowing that the consulting detective was alive was worth it.

Mycroft composed himself, once again showing no emotion, and nodded. "But he never tells you where he is". It was a statement, not a question, and Henry figured that he had already read every single text Sherlock had sent him. So he simply said "No – unless you count one mention of Rio".

Mycroft nodded. "Do you know why he sent you the texts?"

Henry shrugged. "I don't know". His fingers twitched. "Do you mind if I – "

"No, please, smoke". And, then, to Henry's surprise, he took out cigarettes as well and gave him a light when he was done rolling his cigarette.

"Thank you". He relaxed as he inhaled the smoke (although he knew that Louise didn't like his habit, but they were just friends, after all). Then, because he was feeling rather bolt, all of a sudden, he asked, "So what now?"

"I'm going to find Sherlock."

"Of course. Would you... will you tell him I didn't want to break my promise, but I felt I had no choice?"

Mycroft scrutinized him, and this time, Henry saw something in his eyes that he hadn't expected.

Respect.

"So that is why you lied... And why you were so nervous."

"How did you know?" Henry asked, not really expecting a reply.

"I check on Doctor Watson from time to time, so I knew you met regularly. And you seemed nervous during the last few meetings. At first, I didn't think much about it, but since even John realized that something was going on, I decided to look into your phone records. It was a "shot in the dark", as my brother would most likely call it, but a good one."

Henry nodded, because being shocked or angry seemed utterly pointless. Normal rules simply didn't apply to the Holmes.

"I have to say, Mr. Knight – "

"Henry".

"Henry. Well, I have to say, Henry, you are coping quite well with the fact that someone you didn't know just invited you to an abandoned warehouse and asked you questions about his supposedly dead brother".

Henry blew out the smoke through his nose and shook his head. "If you spent twenty years of your life believing your father was killed by a gigantic mutant killer dog, you learn not to be surprised by anything".

"I'm starting to understand why Sherlock came to you."

"I'm the only one he really knows in Dartmoor".

Mycroft shot him a look. "And you really think he wouldn't have been able to find a safe place without any witnesses?"

This hadn't occurred to Henry, so he didn't say anything. They smoked their cigarettes in silence, after which Mycroft had him escorted back to his hotel.

Henry slept better than he had ever since Sherlock had come back from the dead.

Louise noticed that he seemed happier when she came down two days later; he simply asked her if she'd like to have lunch, and tried to convince himself that she didn't blush.

A week later, back in Dartmoor, having made plans to have dinner with Louise that night (still strictly as friends, no, not "still", because that was all they ever would be, he really should understand that by now) he got another text from Sherlock. Just two words.

_Thank you._

He didn't answer because there was no need to. But he grinned, and somehow, felt that Sherlock would return soon. With this brother at his side, and knowing the consulting detective...

It was only a matter of months at best.


	4. Chapter 4

He wasn't surprised to hear from Sherlock again, which really was surprising in itself, since any normal would have supposed that, after his brother had found him, Sherlock Holmes had more important things and people to deal with than Henry Knight.

And yet, Sherlock continuing to text him seemed the most natural thing in the world.

Maybe because he'd got used to it, maybe because he couldn't imagine the consulting detective not texting him, maybe because he needed to know that Sherlock was doing as well as could be expected under the circumstances to convince himself that he'd done the right thing when he'd told his brother that he was alive.

Be that as it may, the texts continued.

_The Police here are actually more idiotic than Scotland Yard._

_Drug cartels really aren't as scary as people believe._

_I would give everything for a challenging case._

Of course Henry knew – or thought he knew, at least, you could never be sure with the Holmes' – what Sherlock meant. "Challenging case" was obviously a code for "case in London, with John".

He usually answered something like "Really?" or "Didn't know that" or "I can imagine that".

And then, one day, a text came that made him blush – and wonder whether Sherlock's brother had really lost all interest in him after receiving the information he'd needed, as he'd believed.

_I'm informed that you are still single. Don't tell me you are truly that oblivious._

Confused, he answered, "What do you mean, "oblivious"?" before he remembered that Sherlock never replied to his texts, so he'd probably never know. But the consulting detective surprised him again when his phone chimed not two minutes later.

_When you had run out carrying a gun, she didn't call John because she was scared for her or other people's safety. She was scared that you'd get hurt. Obvious._

He didn't answer, mainly because he didn't know what to text.

Sherlock really had impeccable timing, seeing as Louise would come down the next day... Or, Henry suddenly thought, maybe it wasn't a coincidence. He believed Mycroft fully capable of controlling Sherlock's friends (or former clients or whatever) just because he felt like it. And, based on what Mycroft had told him, he was rather sure that John and Greg were under surveillance as well. But Henry definitely thought that he'd like to stay on Mycroft Holmes' good side.

The thought that, maybe, just maybe, Sherlock could be right, because, no, he definitely could be right, after all, he was the world's most perceptive man, came unbidden to his mind, and he refused to think about it more than necessary.

Tried to think about it more than necessary. At least.

He didn't really succeed.

But at least he tried, and that was something.

Louise came down the next day, as planned, and he knew she'd see immediately how nervous he was.

However, he didn't understand why she seemed nervous too.

They ate, mostly in silence, and he began to wonder (no, not wonder, he definitely knew that it was true) whether Sherlock Holmes had for once made a mistake, when she suddenly asked, "Henry – are you alright?"

He looked up from his plate, realizing he was blushing and looking all but comfortable. Which, no matter whether they were eating just as friends (naturally) or not, was not an appropriate expression. But Sherlock definitely wouldn't appreciate him telling his friends that he was still alive, so he went for a half-truth.

"Yes – just – I got a message from a friend, who has a few problems, right now".

He considered that one could call "tracking down Moriarty's men and possibly being chased by them as well" a problem.

She nodded, and suddenly looked unsure. "Which friend?"

"A... new one" he finally replied, thinking that, before Sherlock had shown up at his doorstep, he'd just been a former client of the consulting detective's, and had only started to think of his as a friend recently, so all in all, it wasn't a lie.

"Is she... nice?" she asked, looking at the table, and, just like that, he realized that Sherlock had been right all along: He was oblivious. And an idiot.

Apart from the fact that he wasn't good enough for her, but if she'd have him, he didn't care in the least.

"It's not a she. And I wouldn't be interested even if it were. There is someone else".

"Oh" she said, blushing, and he being more bold than he'd ever been in his life, took her hand.

When she squeezed back and beamed at him, he decided that he'd have to thank Sherlock as soon as the consulting detective texted him again.

Needless to say, the guest bedroom wasn't used after all.

Two months later, while he was happily making breakfast for them, his phone chimed and he suddenly realized that he hadn't got a text from Sherlock in a while, feeling guilty that he hadn't thought about it sooner.

The text, however, made him even happier than he already was, if that was possible.

_I'm done. I will return soon.  
And congratulations._

He answered "Thank you" and continued making breakfast, happily whistling.

Naturally, he hadn't known what "soon" meant – knowing Sherlock, probably anything between a week and a year – but, barely three weeks later, John called him.

John rarely called him, really, except to ask him when he was coming down, and since he and Louise had been in London only the previous week (both John and Greg had told them "About time", so he definitely hadn't been able to hide his feelings as well as he'd hoped, and maybe he had mentioned a few times to often), he knew immediately what had happened.

He answered, hoping that he sounded normal.

Not that John would have realized if he'd sounded different, in the state he was in.

It was difficult to tell whether the doctor was happy or angry or both; whether he was crying or laughing; whether he himself would even have been able to tell. However, it seemed like he had decided to call every single person he knew to tell them what had occurred – after he and Sherlock had caught this Moran, apparently, at least, Henry thought he heard something like this amidst all the rambling – trying to realize it was true.

However, John was still a doctor, and a good one, so eventually, he realized that Henry wasn't reacting the way he should.

"Henry? Are you still there?"

"Yes".

"Do you have nothing to say?"  
And, for the first time in his life, Henry decided to give someone else advice.

"I think you should talk to Sherlock."

There was a moment's silence on the other end, then John said, "I suppose you are right" and hung up without saying goodbye. Henry didn't care; as long as John and Sherlock could be the team they once were again, he was happy that he'd helped, no matter in what small capacity.

He told Louise, as soon as she returned from work (she'd taken a job at a clinic in Dartmoor, to be able to come home to him every night, and he was starting to wonder if it was too soon to buy an engagement ring), that Sherlock had returned, as well as –

As well as everything else.

She took the fact that he'd known that Sherlock was alive all along rather well.

"So that's why you were nervous" she laughed and kissed him, and he laughed too. "That obvious, hm?"

"You aren't exactly the best actor, Henry" she replied with a smile, and kissed him again.

Later that night, he asked her if she thought John and Sherlock would be okay. She assured him they would, because she couldn't imagine one without the other, especially since she'd seen how John had been handling, or not been handling, their separation.

He smiled in the darkness.

A few days later, he got two texts, almost at once.

_Sherlock told me everything. I'm moving back into 221B. When you come to London the next time, we'll invite you to Angelo's._   
_Thank you for taking care of him._   
_J_

The other was, of course, from Sherlock.

_John told me you asked him to talk to me, instead of shouting into his phone._   
_Thank you._   
_Again._

He grinned and decided that, just to celebrate and not because he was actually contemplating it, naturally, he would go look at a few rings.

She was wearing it two weeks later when they were eating with Sherlock and John and Greg at Angelo's.

During which he decided, looking around, that if life was stranger than he'd supposed, at least it was also much, much better.


End file.
